The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The following morning, I am recovering from the massive sex overload, and I am fuming with rage. Roger may pay me well, but goddammit, I have boundaries. I have never wanted to have sex with a woman, nor have group sex. Roger must have known this, but while I was in his spell, he bent me to his will for his own perverted fantasies. The more I think about it, the angrier I get.

And what kind of sick fuck gets his college-age son an orgy for his birthday? What happens when that boy finally grows up and thinks back to last night? I’m no shrink, but I doubt he’ll ever be able to have a normal, healthy relationship with a woman in his natural life. Roger may think he is giving his boy an ultimate fantasy, but he may have ensured that Benny will never be able to marry someone. No grandchildren for you, Roger.

I push Roger from my mind. I can’t see him again, that much is certain. But there’s something larger I have to think about.

I need to make some changes.

I count up all the money I’ve earned from Roger: $91,850. For three nights of hypnotic-induced sexual slavery. At the first opportunity, I put it all into my checking account. The teller at the bank looks suspicious when I hand over so much paper money, but I don’t care. There will be questions from the IRS later, but I’ll deal with those another day.

I next write one check—one!—and wipe out all my student loan debt. A second check eliminates all I owe on my credit cards. And with that, I am financially free. I can’t believe it.

I next go online and delete the profile for Taylor the VIP escort. I cancel my provider cell phone and email accounts. As a last act of purging, I throw out all that ridiculous skimpy underwear I would once wear for my clients. If I ever put on something like this again, it will be for a boyfriend.

I get myself checked out for every possible STD; everything is okay there. Thank God.

I also begin seeing a professional hypnotherapist, someone with framed credentials in her office. I explain my situation: I was once an escort who allowed a client to hypnotically program me, and now I want her to go into my head and make sure all posthypnotic commands are canceled. I also want to be sure I remember everything I ever did in Roger’s presence. My therapist is absolutely aghast at my story, but she agrees to work with me.

Finally, after all my finances are turned around, I have $16,339.27 left over. I pop that money into a short-term CD and let it grow. I’m applying to law schools across the country, and I’ll need that nest egg to move and for first semester tuition when the time comes. All I have to do between now and then is put up with my stupid job until I can quit. I can do it; I’m a trooper.

Nine months later, I am about to leave Chicago for sunny Irvine, CA. Before I go, I want to hang with a friend just one last time.

The oddest consequence from my time with Roger is that I’ve kept in touch with Kellie. She’s fun; I like being goofy and hanging out with her. We are meeting at the South Clinton St Starbucks. As usual, she’s beaten me there and claimed one of the better tables in the back.

I break into a smile when I see her. I will miss Kellie.

“Hey there councilor,” she says. “Buy you a drink?” She has a spiced chai tea waiting for me.

We fall to talking and catching up. She’s started a karate class. She’s also found work as a nude model for an art class at the university.

“Every time I make eye contact with the students,” she sighs, “they go beet red and stare at their canvas.” She imitates this, and I laugh.

A pause. “He still asks about you, you know,” Kellie murmurs.

“That’s nice,” I say dismissively.

Kellie shakes her head. “No, no, he totally wishes you well. Wanted to buy you a set of fountain pens as a good luck gift or something.”

I shrug. Time has melted away most of the rage I once felt for Roger. While I hate how he once controlled my mind, I grudgingly have to admit that his financial generosity has changed my life. Becoming his slave was my ticket to freedom. I now think of him as a sick man, but not evil.

I regard Kellie, and I can’t help but asking her, “So… you’re still seeing him?”

“Yep,” Kellie confirms. “Last week, I was the government’s Official Penis Inspector and…”—she adopts a tone of mock wonder—“…I had to inspect Tom Selleck. Who turned out to have a cock this long!” She holds out her hands.

I bust out laughing. I can’t help it.